Archie Calls Round 25 Exactly Spot On – The Smart Sportsfans Cop the Cash – And Loaded it All Up on JT Christ Superstar’s Cowboys to Bring Home the Grand Final Bacon


Well Archie told youse so didn’t he sportsfans?

Picked it in one he did, which of course is no surprise given that our Archie scored 4 tries against the Wests Panthers that famous cold Friday night in September of nineteen hundred and eighty one and in the process both broke the black and red bastards hearts and single handedly sent the legendary Fortitude Valleys Diehards U13 Super A team featuring the sons of Kangaroo legend Norm Pope, straight as a die copper Tony Murphy and a few of his mates, and protected pedophile Rod Boult straight into the finals.

The great man shared his wisdom with all you mug punters last week and tipped you into a 3-leg multi which if you were smart enough to take returned you a tick under seven bucks for every single goldie that you threw into the TAB machine at your local pub.

Yep, as Archie declared would be the case the Cowboys flogged the Dogs, the Broncos smashed the Storm, and the Panthers pipped the Hayne Plane and his late season lovers the Titans, and now the ladder looks just like the footballing genius advised that it would.



If you haven’t yet taken a gander at the crystal-ball gazing column that our far from humble correspondent published prior to round 25 you should, for even though you’ve missed the near 700* interest on your dough this weekend it’s not too late to jump on the Butterfly bandwagon and pick up a bit of easy last round loot .

It’s as simple as shooting fish in a bloody barrel, and as an added bonus Archie has thrown in an extra tip and let us all in on the secret that the Storm will brain the Sharks and nail the minor premiership.

Boom, boom, boom, bucks, bucks, bucks, JT’s Cowboys are the bloody duck’s nuts.

Why Religion is Dead – Why You Should Go and See Rock Stars Play While They Are Still in Their Prime – And Why You Should Lock the Bloody Bedroom Door When the Bead Twirler’s Buying Up a Cut-Price Storm on the World Wide Web



My much-love hotter than Hades but mad as a snake missus the Bead-Twirler has always been an obsessive type, and for seemingly eons the crazy coconut has enjoyed an eclectic assortment of various obsessions – wood carving, knitting, Christ, Cook Island quilting, growing hedges, protesting against dredges, ten pin bowling, JK Rowling, ukulele, shots of Baileys, nude folk hula and West Coast Cooler just to name a few – but has latterly developed a single-focused 22 hour a day interest in online retail presumed bargain buying therapy, using the funds previously allocated to my punting bank, of course.

The mad bodacious-bootied bint will buy almost bloody anything – as the first page of her AliExpress account statement for the past hour (below) clearly attests – but geez I wish to buggery that she’d keep off bloody Gumtree, because web-based bargain hunting and obsessions with extraordinarily average 80’s music are just bad medicine, even to the healthiest of wide-eyed and willing to have a crack at anything adventurous Geebung born and bred punters.


Let me tell you about yesterday, if I can without throwing up on the front lawn at the thought of the fantasy-filled sexy-blonde lead-singer from Transvision Vamp channeling a Teenage Mutant Turtle vision turned bad waking dream.

There I was flat on my back like a lizard drinking, snoring my bloody head off when after a hard night punting on the Welsh hurdles and trying to chase my losses on the early-morning American trots I had lowered my Lothario-like scone to 90 degrees on the Sleepmaker, and drifted off to never-never land dreaming of Wendy the Vamp getting it on with Eva Longoria – darkness and light, and trans-Atlantic love: I’m an international peace loving and understanding maker as I’m sure you understand – only to be rudely awaken at the ungodly hour of 5pm by a screaming non-naked Samoan waving a couple of tickets in front of my dial and demanding that I decamp from the soft King-sized wet dream inspire, snap to attention, shower, shit and shave, and then chuck on my ancient genie pants with the slit up the side and the presumed-retired lace-up white boots, ready for a big 80’s inspired night out on a revolving dance floor just like the one they used to have at Images on the top floor of ye old Suncorp Tower all those long decades ago.

‘WTF are you on about you weirdo?’ I was thinking while my aged meat pies slowly came into post-slumber focus, but I wasn’t surprised, because after god-knows how many years of tropical mango madness you learn to expect any bloody thing.

Any bloody thing but this, that is, because when I opened the saucers wide and looked inside at the pieces of pulp paper in her palm I wished I’d bloody stayed in the twilight zone. For lo and behold what was my big-boobed bonk-bunny holding but a pair of tickets to the 97.3FM High School Reunion that she’d picked up for a tenth of the face price on Gumtree, which even in my sleep-deprived and befuddled state I realised was a tenth too much to pay for the privilege of being waterboarded by one-hit wonder wankers with blonde-streaked tousled tresses, and another quarter of a point over the odds again.

For the love of pepperoni pizza, clowns like the Kids in the Kitchen were never quite a cool cat like me’s cup of tea, and Pseudo Echo were just a gang of poncy prancing poofs with plastic keyboards they pretended were guitars as they lip-synced to seriously over-produced cover versions of sh*t original songs.

Old Angry Anderson and his rabble of riffing tattooed roses were always to the right of the National Front – and thus ideological anathema to the Arch – and the Carly-Simon covering Chocolate Starfish simply took it in the eponymous opening according to this thrice a day rooter’s reckoning, not that I wasn’t on occasions partial to the odd starfish the fifth round around,just to keep it interesting.

Boom Crash Opera were awful even in their prime back when Hawkey ran the Aussie show, and Daddy Cool ceased being cool about the same time that the mad assassin Mark Chapman put a couple of bullets through John Lennon, although this Bunger boy’s always been partial to a bit of coming, so I figured that perhaps I could grin and bear that mode of faux Ross Wilson written and performed Mond0-rock rooting music for one song at least.

Overall though the prospect of getting up before the sun came down so I could do the bus stop with stonewashed permed grandmas thrilled me with neither joy nor exultation, so in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable pain ahead I tried to full a swifty on the spouse and pretended that I couldn’t see without my specs and had gone deaf in my sleep.

It worked a treat for all of two seconds until the ebullient other half accurately observed that I actually had the looking glasses wrapped around my head and craftily coerced me into acknowledging that I remained in possession of the gift of sound by asking me whether she wanted me to slip a couple hundred in my Ubet account for a next punt on the gees running around Doomben.

Of course I stupidly said yes before I realised the trap the Twirler had trickily laid, so in the instant that the error of my ways became apparent to me I pretended to collapse into a coma. But that only lasted as long as it took for her to snatch up a framed and signed Wa Wa Nee platinum selling single and whack me in the head – gee they’re heavy those decorative stimulated sales discs – and after I regained consciousness and  realised the gig was up I had no option other than to put on a sour face and grudgingly accept my fate.

Half an hour and a pair of black jeans, karate slippers, a well-worn Culture Club t-shirt later and a twenty five-buck taxi ride later I found myself standing at the bar in the auditorium of the suburban beer barn the Eatons Hill Hotel, paying 12 bucks every ten minutes for 300ml pre-mixed bottles of sickeningly sweet Midori and Lemonades poured into plastic cups to quench the blushing bride’s demon thirst.

After she’d downed the first couple and started bopping to Pseudo’s Funkytown I pretended that I had dysentery and had to run off every five minutes to the dunny, but after about the third dive past the gents and up to the stairs to sneak a peek at the Broncos slapping the Storm on the big screen I felt five familiar fingers clamp on my left shoulder and a much-feared coconut-sized fist smack me hard in the gut, and even before I beat the 10 count and got up off the ladies lounge bar canvas the realisation had  dawned that the gig was up.

So instead of a feverish Friday night full of the real-man’s code of rugby league footy, with a dash of 18 man around the AFL aerial ping-pong thrown in as icing on the Steeden decorated cake, I was instead doomed to spend the evening with 3 thousand faded and blind drunk one-time mutton dressed as lamb faux-beauties turned just mutton trying not to look like chops and their goatee-sporting tattooed and even more pissed twice divorced but third-time-lucky spouses.


The best-dressed couple at the High School Reunion, bar none.

‘Oh well’ I thought to myself, trying to look on the bright side of a very dark few hours ahead, there’s always Steve Kilbey from the Church to put a gilt-edge on this shit sandwich and make it at least half-palatable.

But just as I was processing the thought and almost starting to feel better, the once-great internationally famous front man and gun guitarist crawled on to the stage, and whene he went arse over tit over the amp the third time before he’s taken three steps I suddenly realised exactly how Winnie the Poo Churchill must have felt 101 years ago when the Turks started hurling down bombs and machine-gunning bullets at the diggers snaking their supposedly easy as way down through the Dardanelles.

Gee it’s fun being caught on the wrong foot in an unguarded moment isn’t it sportsfans?


Solidarity Severed as the Snout-Troughing Murdoch Hack Dashing Des Houghton Sticks a Sneaky Knife into His Award-Winning News-Whatever Stablemate – Methinks Dashing Des May Just Be a Wee Bloody Tad Upset That His Top End of Town Mates From Churchie are About to Cop a Major Touch-Up From BrisVegas’s Pre-Eminent and Uncowered Award-Winning Wordsmith


Regular conniseurs of this cracker of a website will be aware that we hold the Courier-Mail’s Saturday morning cash-for-columnist Dashing Des Houghton in very low regard, and have a consistent record of attacking the constantly turped-up, free-loading  pen-pushing, plonk-junkie, lover of laissez-faire loot, once upon a time curly-locked but now fast receding hairlined halfwit at every conceivable opportunity.

The animus that your teller of true tales Archie bears toward this free-fang-loving bloated badger is no mere whimsy belching from a bitter and twisted tall-tale-telling stranger, but in fact dates all the way back to the year of nineteen hundred and ninety five, when your hot-looking yet humble correspondent had the huge misfortune to have worked under the tiny-todgered tossing tyrant in the newsroom at Rampaging Rupert’s now-defunct fish and chips wrapper the Daily Sun.

We’ve written before about how the narcissistic nobody pissed away a once-promising penman’s career by virtue of a combination of greed and gluttony, so there’s need to repeat that reality newspaper vignette, but let me just say that Dashing Des’s head was so far up his hugely inflated arse back then that he could clean it with the complimentary lifetime supply of toothbrushes provided to him courtesy of whichever plaque-cleaning multinational mob he cynically plugged in his column that week..

Look sportsfans, let me put my pack of pilfered from Gerry Bellino’s Bubbles Bathhouse cards on the table and be totally Francis about my mercifully short spell working with Dashing Des, and tell you that he was such an obnoxious, rude, queer red-wine quaffing swine that I didn’t believe for a second thereafter that my inch above nadir opinion of the claret-squaffing clown could possibly sink any lower.

But on rare occasions – very rare – I get it wrong. This is one of them.

You see there’s this little thing we Australians hold dear that’s called standing by your mates.

Johnny Williamson sings about it regularly –  in fact he famously did so at Crocodile Crikey Steve’s funeral send off – so there’s no need for me to bore you sh*tless by repeating  the mantra, and anyway sticking staunch is something that blokes and birds of the Wide Brown Land learn at birth, or school at least – unless of course their oldies sent ’em to Churchie or Grammar, but we won’t talk about that.

The rules are pretty f*cking simple.

You don’t freestyle a fork into your family member’s guts.

You don’t take the cleaver to your close friends, unless of course it’s a friendly free-for-all sledge in the sunshine, like my devilishly humorous dabs at Doubting, he of the hail-smashed head and obsession with supposed freedom of speech and Section 18C of the Race Discrimination Act, despite the hapless and hopeless but totally unrehabilitatible tote punter being absolutely unable to reconcile the immutably irreconcilable disparities between law, ancient wog ideologies dreamed up by Gorgeous George’s white-skirt-wearing Socratic ancestors, libertarian nonsense spouted by seventeenth-century silver-spooned Poms, and just plain bloody Aussie common sense.

You definitely don’t do your mates missus doggy style in the dunny. Unless of course you’re Wayne Carey and you’re cursed with a coal-colored notch on your noggin that’s even darker than Cains, and hated by every bundy-sipping bastard at the bung and the recipient of a ban from Queensland’s premier family-friendly entertainment arena issued under the royal seal of Kevvie.

They’re the sub-bottom line basics, rules numbers two, three and four.

Of course you don’t need me to instruct you how to suck eggs by telling you that the cardinal rule – the one every half-decently taught little drought and flooding plain raised tyke knows better than their own name – is what is colloquially known from Goomeri to Gundagai and Geraldton and back as the Gallipoli ‘Lest we Forget’ immutable law of Great Southern Land science.

That being that a Digger doesn’t, under any circumstances whatsoever, take the tee-ball bat to his or her bloody team mates. And in particular they don’t wield the wickedly North and South-smashing sized piece of willow at the back of a squad member’s skull while his eyes are faced forward searching to expose all manner of some mendacious men’s sordid and squalid secrets.

But Dashing Des has broken the code.


These esoteric artist-typess just never throw their teenage-era t-shirts away do they sportsfans?

No, that’s not a fair suck of the sav, or the Sauvignon Blanc if like Des you prefer, because what the sneaky low sucker’s in fact done by wielding the wooden weapon and smacking it into the back of my mate and his stablemate Matthew Condon’s (above) silver-haired skull is that he’s smashed the sacred covenant signed in blood by our countrymen at Suvla Bay into seven thousand bloody shattered pieces.

The shot that the pea-hearted plonk addict has taken at his team-mate Matt – who is without a shadow of a doubt Queensland’s pre-eminent crime and history writer, and in my view Van Diemens Land’s best by panels too – may seem a trifling one-liner to the non-media industry mug punter enjoying an early morning weekend meat pie and BBQ sauce with their bloody mary, but let me tell you straight that Dashing Des’s seemingly innocuous salvo at Condon is in the sanctified-circle of the writers world nothing less than a capital offence, with a dash of meatballs chucked in just for good luck and because Houghton’s nothing short of a punch-drunk poser with hatred born of envy in his heart.

F*ck me.

Matthew Condon’s one of Queensland’s living treasures, a bloke who’s written a poignant and absolutely brilliant personal and historical homage to the greatest city on the planet, Brisvegas. He’s also authored the definitive Pineapple State true crime trilogy, and entertains readers young, old ad in-between most Saturdays in the now cruelly cut and paste thanks to budget cuts and idiotic editorial decisions Q-Magazine.


But who the hell is Des Houghton, the dickhead who faux-cooingly and somewhat smart-arsedly calls Condon a prominent novelist yet completely fails to acknowledge that the bloke is not only by the length of the straight the leading investigative journalist living and working in BrisVegas – sorry Doubting old son, but to the average punter Brookfield’s some mythical millionaire-crowded citadel south of Shangri-La, so you’re disqualified – but the silver-haired scribe is also without any doubt whatsoever our best-loved and most widely-read wordsmith and non-fiction tale teller to boot.

Now most moderately well-informed mainstream media subscribers – all four of them, three on tax-deductible comps – would agree with the Bead Twirler’s view that Houghton’s naught but a washed-up tippy-toed shiv-in-the-spine merchant sporting a Shiraz-shot liver whose fan base these days consists almost exclusively of long-haul 4BC listeners, cheap wine wholesalers and a conga-line of chattering-class LNP and lobbyist deep-throats who’d sell their mother’s soul for a shot of Sambuca it gave them or their cloying clients a safe Hamilton seat in the high-paying, little-work requiring House of Broken Dreams.

However as has often been the case in his long roller-coaster of a ride with his dearly-beloved bride and chief critic, Archie however begs to disagree, for simply describing the wine-sodden, Wagyu Beef-Loving As Long As It’s Free wanker Des in the manner that the Bead Twirler does above is letting the low-road rambling lazy rook with the life was indeed meant to be easy if you have the right River City-ruling class connections and know how to work the system believing life-view off the hook far too bloody easily.

So we’ll take it a step further than the weak-gutted but hot-bodied Bead Twirler and channel the wisdom of the bloke who inspired the Geebung code by declaring that Dashing Des Houghton is nothing but a cheap-shot king-hit merchant, and a big ugly fat-necked wombat headed big bellied magpie legged narrow hipped splaw-footed son of an Irish Bailiffs or English Landlord who’d cop a sling in return for a favorable mention in his column from anyone who’d pay in wine or kind, and has sold his fellow writer Condon down the Brisbane River for a wretched two lines and a couple of hundred bucks.

For fuck sake Des, even Judas Iscariot held out for thirty pieces of silver!

It’s the last gasp of a drowning man is what this is. Or more correctly, the sinking shot of a loose-principled Harold Larwood bowling a bouncer at his better while he watches his secret-circle of high-society Tom Brown-style Anglican Church of England Grammar School-loving lewd boys go under the breakers and start sinking down to the reef.

No doubt you have no bloody idea what old Archie’s banging on about sportsfans, and unfortunately for you but fortunately for me I know the code and unlike Dashing Des have a strong sense of journalistic ethics, so I can’t tell you.

Those in the know however know what I’m banging on about, and if you hold on to your horses for another week or two you and make sure that you keep a sharp eye on any article written by Mr M Condon of the Courier and Sunday Mail’s will too, and then you’ll be running out and around the Bung telling every bugger that you know that Archie bloody Butterfly’s a genius.

Just don’t be upset when Kevvie raises his right eyebrow in the traditional manner, shakes his finely-nuanced noggin, turns to his sidekick Sharky and tells him that you’re a bloody idiot, because everyone knows Archie’s always spot on the money, and this joker – you – has clearly been dumped by a big fat grey cloud and come down in the last shower.

He’s a clever bugger our old Kevvie, and don’t you worry about that, unless of course you went to Churchie and continue to proffer craven excuses for the conduct of Pedophiles once employed at and now protected by the Emirs of the country estate posing as a school, and/or you’re name’s Dashing Des Houghton.

Then you’d be worrying I would imagine.

And don’t you worry about that.


Dashing Des ducks down to the Hunter Valley to have a chat with his most reliable sources. And to get on the free in exchange for a cloying Courier-Mail column otherwise outrageously expensive vintage Grange Hermitage sauce.

Excusive – Child Sex Scandal – Queensland Court Not Told That Brisbane Primary School Teacher Who Received Suspended Sentence and $2000 Fine After Pleading Guilty to Possessing 4400 Child Sex Pictures and Films Was a Member of an International Pedophile Child-Sex Porn Ring


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It defies logical belief that a primary school Year 3 teacher who was sprung with thousands of disgusting child-sex porn pictures and movies on his computer, and then confessed to the police that he’d been pulling himself over young tackers for a decade and a half – could plead guilty to these terrible crimes and avoid jail.

Yet this is exactly what happened this week when a grub named Maximillian Hodges, a Star Trek nerd who goes by the name Max, and just so happened to be teaching a class full of seven and eight year old children at Brisbane’s northside Morayfield State School when police knocked on his the door of the house he shares with his sister in Bestmann Road at Ningi, near Bribie Island, and found 4400 child sex files on the sick prick’s USB sticks.


Now common sense would tell you that in the interests of keeping young Queensland children safe, a bloke like this needs to be locked up for as lock as the law possibly allows him to be locked up, for after all this is a forty-something-year-old unmarried man who during the course of his offending had unfettered access to children under his care and control who were the same age as the victims of crime who were pictured nude in lewd poses and performing sex acts in the cache of kiddy fiddler’s porn found at Hodges home.

How much more serious than this does possession of child exploitation get? Yet the weirdo who wanks over little kids was free to walk away from court the same day, having never served a single second in custody for his disgraceful crimes.

I guess we shouldn’t be surprised considering that the sentencing judge was none other than the computer illiterate District Court dinosaur Terry Martin who, as we have previously reported, earlier this year let a grub who had been caught naked in bed with a boy under 12 – and later admitted filming himself molesting the kid – walk free from court on a similar suspended sentence.

WTF is going on here?

Why is it Terry Martin whose name keeps bobbing up in these controversial cases of slaps on the wrist with wet bus tickets for child sex offenders?

Does it have anything to do with his long-time and formative professional relationships with justices such as Pat Shanahan, a prominent member of our favourite dodgy boys who wanna dress up as soldiers club and suspected pedophile ring incubator the Qld University Regiment Association; or Jack Kimmins, the bloke who it now appears almost certainly covered up serious allegations pedophile rings operating at the highest levels of society and in the police force when he was charged with the Hottest Inquiry in the World into credible allegations of same in the 1990’s?

Or his his His Honour simply soft on pedophiles?

And if so, why?


Computer geek and kiddy fiddler Max Hodgess, born 1971. The District Court was never told that he was part of an international child sex porn ring.

After all, Martin appears to have taken into account the fact that the pervert Hodgess had been seeking psychological treatment since the police kicked in his door and seized his pedo porn, but appears equally to have totally disregarded the fact that by his own admission the unmarried school teacher had been fascinated with child pornography for more than 15 years, or in other words during his entire teaching career.

Odd isn’t it?

What’s even stranger is that what the court was not told – and we make no suggestion whatsoever that Judge Martin knew, although the odds are 6/5 that he probably did – that Hodgess was arrested as a result of information that police had received from Interpol (and subsequently forwarded to the State’s secret crime fighting body the CCC) following the world’s largest child pornography bust in Ontario, Canada a few months before they put the collar on the Primary School teaching kiddy-fiddle lover as part of an Australia-wide and international investigation that resulted in scores of simultaneous arrests across the globe.


So how the hell did this highly-important information that was of the utmost importance to understanding the true nature of Hodgess’s criminal offending remain concealed from the court, and why? And even more importantly, how was it concealed? Did the prosecution fail to put it forward, or did Judge Martin rule it inadmissible?

These are questions that must be answered, for if information about Hodgess’s involvement in the global pedo ring had been admitted into evidence it would have put a very different slant on the circumstances both of his offending and of his sentencing wouldn’t it sportsfans?

(Not of course that any slant other than ‘this teacher who has just been sprung with almost 5000 pieces of kiddy porn porn says he has fantasised about f*cking young boys his students age for more than a decade’ was required to send him to the can for a long, long holiday).

This case stinks to absolute high heaven, and politicians, the public and the Mainstream media should be screaming for answers.

The simple and increasingly uncomfortable truth is that when it come to police and the courts dealing with child-sex offenders something is very, very rotten in the State of Queensland, as the mug punters from the suburbs are very soon about to find out when Queensland’s pre-eminent investigative crime writer prepares to lift the lid on the involvement of some very prominent citizens in the child sex scandals – both reported and unreported – that have been plaguing this state for near half a century.

Remember, you heard it here first.

Pass Me the Pethidine and the Prozac Doc – This Young Teen Rape Thing’s Sent Me Round the Bloody Twist and Its Rendered Me F*cking Hysterical – If This Doesn’t Stop Soon I’ll End Up With the Vacuum-Sealed Facsimile of a Soul of the Little-Boy F*cker’s Barrister


How dare those goddamned child abuse victims start f*cking screaming about the crimes that were committed against them when they were just wee little tackers.

What are they, soft or something?

Or just plain bloody hysterical?

The poor old public is sick of hearing about vulnerable little kids being force-fed bourbon and barbiturates, bound, bashed, bonked, buggered and just down-right brutally betrayed by adults breaking the bloody law.

It’s boring!


Or so says Craig ‘If He Had One’ Eberhardt (above), big-billing barrister extraordinaire to the pantheon of sex-abusing sicko stars.

Old If He Has One is the doyen of depraved defendants, and a pantheon of pedos, porn peddlers, pervs and protection unit prisoners can be seen daily lining up in an orderly queue so that the King of Civil Liberties trained tyke can vilify their victims and claim that the complainant c*nts are nothing but neo-Nazi propagandists and witch-bitch tied to the stake burning bastards.

How else can you explain the craven clown’s claim that there is an ‘atmosphere of hysteria’ surrounding Child Sexual abuse that has been fanned by punters being ‘bombarded in a daily basis’ with stories of innocence lost, stolen by selfish sex-criminals who care only about their next ejaculation, and not a jot about the long-term impact on of their idle but usually well-planned sick fantasies  on the lives of their victims and their families, past present and future.


Salem my arse If He Had One. If your clients lived in Massechussets in the 17th century we’d burn the pre-pubescent cock craving c*nts at the stake, and we’d hurl you in the f*cking river too son and see if you sunk. It’s be hard not to I guess with the blacksmith’s anvil tied to your ankle.

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! The Kiddy-Fiddler defender couldn’t duck dive or dog paddle your honor. He’s obviously a goddamn demon. Just like his lascivious little boy-lusting oxygen thieves posing as upright citizen clients.

It’s Nazi Germany alright Mr barrister boy for the underage ‘who cares about consent up your arse schoolboy grin and bear it’ bum-chums who can afford to pay his booked in 6 minute blocks 4 figure an hour legal fees.


But you really should brush up on your Bavarian history bovver boy, because back in the day the lawyers used to stand up to tyranny. And there ain’t no type of tyrant like the tarantula who bites a young boys balls and tickles his tongue with their pint-sized pokers Mr If He Had One.

The strong subjugating the weak and stripping them of their innocence and the future, that’s what fascism is f*ckwit.

Wake up and smell the roses rude boy. One day it could be your kid, and how the hell would you feel about your pottered history of defending Pedos then parent?

Yeah, exactly.

You’d feel just like my Mum and Dad, and the hundreds and thousands of others kids have unbeknownst to them at the time been victims of savage, secreted crimes.

Crackerjack hey Craig?

Give yourself a pat on the back you grandstanding goose. It might just wake you up to the nightmare that your depraved client’s rag-doll sex-toy boy (and girl) victims visit every f*cking night of their lives.




When Quade Cooper’s the Answer Then it Plainly Stands Out Like Dog’s Balls That the Pulveriser and Chubby Cheika Doesn’t Understand the Bloody Question


The sportfans of Geebung are f*ckin angry about the way Chubby and his main man The Pulveriser have assassinated Australian Rugby and our national pineapple play til you die pride.

The Pulveriser – Bill Pulver, the block headed former market researcher from the posh part of Sydney town – is your humble correspondent’s equally humble view the worst sporting head honcho in the whole of the Wide Brown Land, with the possible exception of The Coat Tugger, the Olympic whatever-his-job-is John Coates.

But then again Tugger’s more of a trough-snouting chaff-bagger than he is an administrator anyway, so he’s probably disqualified from the downward spiral sport boss stakes, although given our sparsely populated Games trophy cabinet you have to admit that he’s done a sterling job anyway.

I’ll tell ya what though, this pair of galahs – both of whom are sucking a salary in the high $700k’s annually out of their sport (that’s more than 15 grand a week mathematically-challenged mug punters)  –  have more in common than just a love of over-priced property and a free feed, for just as The Coat-Tugger’s presided over the capitulation of the once-great Aussie five-ringed circus, the Pulveriser’s matched him by leading Australian Rugby down the path of Bledisloe test-dreading destruction.

Old Pappy Papworth had it dead on front, back and dead bloody centre when he put the Pulveriser in the frame as a deep-pocketed poser from the top-end of town who’s run the Rugby finances into the ground and couldn’t give a rats arse about Ra-Ra footy or its future as long as he can continue to sport a freebie Louis the Frog leather satchel to transport his fish egg and flash gourmet lettuce  on gluten-free calcium-enhanced low-GI wholemeal fresh baked bread in Frogland and sped first-class express to Sydney sangas.


The bloke’s a joke, and ya need to look no further than his unbridled I’ll love him ’til the day I die – or at least until it’s either him or me, and then it’s every yuppie for himself – support for Chubby Cheika, the most overrated coach in the long history of the cosmos, a pretender who has built a ridiculously undeserved reputation as a you beaut bonza crackerjack rugby coach on the back of Izzy Folau’s NRL learnt and totally un-ruck, kick and maul brilliance.


He’s Joe Janiak, that’s who Chubby Cheika is. A should-be Uber driver who struck it lucky with a brilliant stallion who took him all around the globe on his back,  just like Joe’s gelding Takeover Target took him around the world, from Singapore to Hong Kong to Tokyo and all the way to Royal Ascot sporting ill-fitting tails and a surely you must be taking the piss ya pisspot style top hat.

For f*ck’s sake, Chubby and Joe even shared the same jockey, even if they went by different names.

Smokin Joe stuck true to his battling stable rider Jay Ford because that’s just what cabbies from Queanbeyan do, but who the hell using logic can work out why Kurtley ‘The New Mark Ella (NME) Ha Ha Ha!’ Beale was- and still would be if he hadn’t busted his knee last year, about half a decade after his desire to play footy deflated – Chubby’s stable jockey and golden haired boy?

So beloved is Beale of Chubby that the supercoach somehow managed to spin NME’s any-bastard-who-doesn’t-have-a-wooden-leg-could-do-it effort running through Mack-truck sized holes caused by 3 Crusaders defenders hanging off an off-loading Izzy in the 2014 Super Rugby Final into a ‘Here Comes Superman’ call up to the 2015 World Cup team, and then shepherded him into a few seemingly impressive to the impressionable late-minute against tired-legs line breaks in a losing side.


If you were the suspicious type you’d have to start asking under your breath if Chubby Cheika may not just be the second coming of Grand Slam Jonesy – a bloke the Old Mark Ella (OME) didn’t have a lot of time for – and that Mr Kurtley NME Beale may not just be one of Jonesy’s favourite superfly half-backs.

But geex, don’t be mentioning that, cos old Dead-Bolt and Doubting from the National Affairs Desk of Rupert ‘International Affairs on the Desk’ Rooting Murdoch’s stable might their backs up, and then the crusade against that c*nt 18C will be yesterday’s news.

And then poofters, queers, homos, fags, buftie boys, cock suckers, arse bandits, fairies, gaylords, shirt-lifters, lady-boys,  bum sniffers, soap droppers and straight-out f*cking sodomites  and sinners – it’s game on!

Bad boys, Bad boys, whatcha gunna do, whatcha gunna do when the paid Papal Knight’s boys are comin’ after you hey?

They’re be no pencil-thin pretender named Will Smith there to protect ya will there? No, the Man in Black’ll be off in some 18th century mid-western town sculling straight whisky and a beer chaser with Tommy-Lee Jones and listening to Miley Cyrus and Dolly Parton singing unplugged duets with Willie Nelson humming backing harmonies won’t he?

Never fear though susceptible sportsfans,  Chubby’s got ya another actor named Wil to entertain ya in the MIB’s absence, a dill named Genia, who until the supercoach selected him for the first game of the Bledisloe hadn’t picked up a ball in anger in 8 months, and not in a fair dinkum game on sunburnt soil for more than 18.

It was an inspired selection by Chubby – though exactly what exotic inspiration inspired him remains a bloody mystery – and was rewarded by our We-Thought-You-Were-Retired Wil being totally out-played by the man with the non-descript name of Smith, and seemingly spending the entire game missing in action.

So good in fact was Wil Genia, and so excited was his coach by the blank highlight reels as he watched them on the iPad in the bath, that it caused Chubby to leap in the air and cry ‘Eureka!’ just before he slipped and fell smack bang on his posterior. But even the extreme pain in the arse wasn’t enough to stop him implementing his Churchillian strategy to win back the auld mug names after an old society pommy mug.

If you can’t keep-a the coveted cup he reckoned, ya just gotta goddamn Cooper it!

And so in lobs Pound – aka Super Trooper Quade Cooper – back from the Rugby dead, and now all of a sudden against all odds the Aussie pick and go loving public is about to find out why the faux-fenian fifteenth generation Catholics believe that a cocoa-coloured Rabbi was actually a Christian who rose from the dead.

The Pulveriser, who not that very long ago regarded the Super Trooper as an inferior species to Judas, is now of course convinced that the indian-ink-riddled rude boy who melted down under the pressure of a sledge from half a dozen boners from the freezing works in Balclutha  – and has never psychologically recovered – is the remedy for all the ills that ail Australian rugby, because Chubby bloody says so and Chubby’s a world class coach who’s never wrong.

The whole shemozzle would dead set be fall on the floor funny if it wasn’t so seriously f*cked up, because these shiny-arsed shaman from the affluent North Shore are turning our land of milk and coal and gas and honey into an international laughing stock, and it’s an absolute f*cking disgrace.

Just look at the bloody Instagram! Sonny Bill’s got selfies with every bastard. Who’s Quade goner LOL with on camera in the Games Village? Bloody no-one, ‘cos the intercept pass-throwing clown who channels Carlos Spencer couldn’t even make the bloody team! And now Chubby’s chucked him in at fly-half ahead of Bernie Foley, the best player in the whole underperforming team!

What the hell’s going on fifteen-a-side arse in the air loving sportsfans?

There’s only one solution.

Sack the whole lot of the bastards and select the entire Melbourne Storm starting side then throw in JT and the Golden Boy Milford, and hurl Nathan Crackerjack Cleary,  Jacky Boy Bird, JT Jr (young Jasie Taumololo) and Monstrous Matty Scott on the reserves bench, and voila! Problem solved, and hand that bloody gold goon guzzler over Captain cuzzie bro!

Pulver, you’re pulverised.

Australia, we’ve won the Bledisloe.

ARU you’ve just saved near 800 grand a year.


And best of all homeless folk the Ra-ra boys have now got enough extra cash to shout you a decent feed or three, and the pride you feel in our new-found 100% league-converted and presently undefeated Wallabies will keep you warm at night while you’re sleeping on the footpath outside The Pulveriser’s gated mansion and waiting for the Willy Webb-Ellis wrecking Waldo to get back home after a big night in the $1800 Kathmandu Made-in-Italy-and-lined-with-duck-fleece single sack at the St Vinnie’s CEO sleepout in the CBD.

Everyone’s a winner baby!

Even the bloody Wallabies.

JT Enters the Starship – Nothing’s Gunna Stop the Cowboys Now!

Looking in his eyes I see Premiership paradise
This footy God’s all over the ground
JT’s just too bloody good to be true
Standing there behind the pack
Always lookin’ to put Morgan through the gap
JT’s on his own is better than 13 Blues

The Origin legend’s never lazy, he’s always on attack
Put the Steeden in your hand JT baby
And flick flick it to O’Neill behind your back
Let the Storm defence around you just fall apart
Baby you’ll set Kyle Feldt up a for a try with a bullet pass

Greeny’s team have built this dream together
Standing strong behind JT forever
Nothing’s gonna stop ’em now
And if the line’s busted by Cronks or Barbas
JT’ll be there in cover
Nothing’s gonna stop ’em
Nothing’s gonna stop the Cowboys now.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do – How the Leading Worker’s Friend Law Firm Treats Their Workers – Or Their Labor Hire Contractors Anyway – Zabulon Pty Ltd – Remember That Name Sportsfans



A little bird tells me that a somewhat largish group of workers at a nation-wide law firm took industrial action just the other day.

The same small-winged deep-throat told me that the workers who went on strike are employed via a third-party arrangement through a company named Zabulon Pty Ltd, named after one of the tribes descending from Jacob’s dozen in the best-selling work of fiction commonly known as the bible.


Some say that it’s a tad odd that this law firm uses a labor hire company to employ their workers, given that the said firm has a strongly stated policy position opposing the use of such firms.

I myself would never say such a thing without first pulling my finger out and doing a wee bit of research to establish the facts.


These are they. The facts, that is.

So the question begs, who the hell are Zabulon Pty Ltd, and why on earth are they employing folk who work for a leading Labor law firm?

It’s a damn good question isn’t it sportsfans?

Perhaps the minions of the mainstream media might get off their gilded arses and one day ask the obvious questions that can provide us with an answer.



The Law Firm Bosses Who Avow That They Hate Penalty Rates Want to Avoid Paying Them to Their Workers By Making Them Work Until 8 At Night


Maurice Blackburn Lawyers are one of Australia’s leading law ‘worker friendly’ law firms.

They care about workers rights, deeply.

Just ask them, they’ll tell you.


In particular they care about the rights of senior level employees.

All the way down to the in fairies at the bottom of the garden.

That’s why they want to deny lawyers earning under 80 grand a year a pay rise (see top).

It’s just like a Kung Fu movie isn’t it Gorgeous? You can’t understand a word that the brown eyed chopstick chompers are saying, but it’s not about words, it’s about action.

I guess Jackie Chan won’t be fronting ads for Maurice Blackburn anytime soon.



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